My first call was to Arthur Sterling, my personal attorney and a man who regarded mercy as a character flaw.
“Arthur,” I said, skipping the pleasantries. “I want the Connecticut house listed tonight. I don’t care about market value. List it for a quick cash sale to a developer or a flipper. No negotiation. No delays.”
There was a pause on the line. “Brianna, it’s 11 PM. Are you sure? That is the marital home.”
“It is my home,” I corrected. “Title is in my name. Mortgage is in my name. Trevor is a guest who has overstayed his welcome. I want the proceeds transferred to my personal offshore account the moment the sale closes. Can you do it?”
“I have a buyer who has been looking in that zip code for a tear-down project,” Arthur said, his voice shifting to professional efficiency. “If the price is aggressive, we can close in forty-eight hours.”
“Do it,” I commanded.
Next, I logged into the banking portals. My fingers flew across the keyboard, fueled by an adrenaline that felt like fire in my veins. I accessed the joint accounts—the ones I filled and Trevor drained.
Click. Freeze.
Click. Cancel.
I went through the credit cards one by one. The Black Card he used for his “business dinners.” The travel card he had undoubtedly used to book the flights to Bali. I reported them all lost or stolen. Within twenty minutes, Trevor Miles’s entire financial circulatory system had been severed.
He was in Bali, playing the wealthy groom. But the moment he tried to pay for a mimosa, he was going to find out he was a pauper.
I finally closed the laptop as the sun began to bleed gray light over the skyline. I hadn’t slept, but I wasn’t tired. I was waiting.
Three days later, the trap sprung.
I received a notification from the security system at the Connecticut house—which I still monitored from my phone. Trevor and Kaitlyn had returned. They must have cut the honeymoon short, perhaps due to the “technical difficulties” with his credit cards.
I watched the live feed. A black car pulled up to the driveway. Trevor stepped out, looking tan, jet-lagged, and irritated. Kaitlyn followed, looking less like a radiant bride and more like a tired tourist. They expected to walk into the foyer, drop their bags, and perhaps figure out why the bank accounts were frozen.
They approached the massive oak front door. Trevor slid his key into the lock.
It didn’t turn.
He jiggled it. He frowned. He tried again, harder, slamming his shoulder against the wood.
A figure stepped into the frame. It was a uniformed private security guard I had hired through Arthur.
“Sir,” the guard said, his voice audible through the camera’s microphone. “You need to step away from the door.”
“Who the hell are you?” Trevor barked, his face flushing red. “This is my house. The lock is jammed.”
“This property was sold yesterday by its owner, Ms. Brianna Adams,” the guard recited impassively. “The new owners have taken possession and changed the locks. You are trespassing.”
Trevor stared at the guard, then at the house, as if the building itself had stabbed him. “Sold? That’s impossible. She can’t sell it without me!”
“The deed was in her name, Sir,” the guard said. “Please remove your luggage from the driveway, or I will be forced to call the police.”
Kaitlyn grabbed Trevor’s arm. “Trevor, what is he talking about? You said this was family land. You said it was entailed!”
“It… it’s a mistake,” Trevor stammered, panic finally cracking his voice. He pulled out his wallet and slapped a credit card into the guard’s chest. “Here. Take this. Just let us in to get our things.”
